“I’d like to follow up on your initial statement, if you don’t mind. And I ought to say up front that I will have to ask some awkward and uncomfortable questions. I apologize in advance. Given your own law enforcement experience, I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“Naturally,” the agent replied in a mellifluous southern accent, but with something hard behind it, metallic.
“There are several aspects to this crime that, frankly, I find baffling. According to your statement, and that of your—” a glance at the report on his desk—“your ward, Ms. Greene, at approximately twenty minutes past nine last evening, there was a knock on the front door of your residence. When Ms. Greene answered it, she found your son, his body bound with thick ropes, on your doorstep. You ascertained he was dead and chased a black Town Car south on Riverside Drive while calling nine-one-one. Correct?”
Agent Pendergast nodded.
“What gave you the impression—initially, at least—that the murderer was in that car?”
“It was the only vehicle in motion at the time. There were no pedestrians in sight.”
“It didn’t occur to you that the perpetrator could have been hiding somewhere on your grounds and made good his escape by some other route?”
“The vehicle ran several lights, drove over a sidewalk and through a flower bed, entered the parkway on an exit ramp, and made an illegal U-turn. In other words, it gave a rather convincing impression of trying to elude pursuit.”
The dry, faintly ironic delivery of this statement irritated Angler.
Pendergast went on. “May I ask why the police helicopter was so dilatory?”
Angler was further annoyed. “It wasn’t late. It arrived five minutes after the call. That’s pretty good.”
“Not good enough.”
Seeking to regain control of the interview, Angler said, rather more sharply than he intended: “Getting back to the crime itself. Despite a careful canvassing of the vicinity, my detective squad has turned up no witnesses beyond those on the West Side Highway who saw the Town Car itself. There were no signs of violence, no drugs or alcohol in your son’s system; he died of a broken neck perhaps five hours before you found him—at least, that’s the preliminary assessment, pending the autopsy. According to Ms. Greene’s statement, it took her about fifteen seconds to answer the summons. So we have a murderer—or murderers—who takes your son’s life, binds him up—not necessarily in that order—props him against your front door while in a state of rigor mortis; rings your doorbell; gets back into the Town Car; and manages to get several blocks before you yourself could effect pursuit. How did he, or they, move so quickly?”
“The crime was flawlessly planned and executed.”
“Well, perhaps, but could it also be that you were in shock—perfectly understandable, given the circumstances—and that you reacted less quickly than indicated in your statement?”
“No.”
Angler considered this terse answer. He glanced at Sergeant Slade—as usual, silent as a Buddha—and then back again at Pendergast. “Then we have the, ah, dramatic nature of the crime itself. Bound with ropes, planted at your front door—it displays certain hallmarks of a gangland-style killing. Which brings me to my main line of questioning, and again, excuse me if some of these are intrusive or offensive. Was your son involved in any mob activity?”
Agent Pendergast returned Angler’s gaze with that same featureless, unreadable expression. “I have no idea what my son was involved in. As I indicated in my statement, my son and I were estranged.”
Angler turned a page of the report. “The CSU, and my own detective squad, went over the crime scene with great care. The scene was remarkable for its lack of obvious evidence. There were no latents, either full or partial, save those of your son. No hair or fiber, again save that of your son. His clothes were brand new—and of the most common make—and on top of that, his deceased body had been carefully washed and dressed. We retrieved no bullet casings from the highway, as the shots must have been fired from within the vehicle. In short, the perps were familiar with crime scene investigation techniques and were exceptionally careful not to leave evidence. They knew exactly what they were doing. I’m curious, Agent Pendergast—speaking from a professional capacity, how would you account for such a thing?”
“Again, I would merely repeat that this was a meticulously planned crime.”
“The leaving of the body at your doorstep suggests the perpetrators were sending you a message. Any idea what that message might be?”
“I am unable to speculate.”
Unable to speculate. Angler looked at Agent Pendergast more searchingly. He’d interviewed plenty of parents who had been devastated by the loss of a child. It wasn’t uncommon for the sufferers to be numb, in shock. Their answers to his questions were often halting, disorganized, incomplete. But Pendergast wasn’t like that at all. He appeared to be in complete possession of his faculties. It was as if he did not want to cooperate, or had no interest in doing so.
“Let’s talk about the, ah, mystery of your son,” Angler said. “The only evidence he is, in fact, your son is your statement to that effect. He is in none of the law enforcement databases we’ve checked: not CODIS, not IAFIS, not NCIC. He has no record of birth, no driver’s license, no Social Security number, no passport, no educational record, and no entry visa into this country. There was nothing in his pockets. Pending the DNA check against our database, from all we’ve learned it appears your son, essentially, never existed. In your statement, you said he was born in Brazil and was not a U.S. citizen. But he’s not a Brazilian citizen, either, and that country has no record of him. The town you indicate he grew up in doesn’t seem to exist, at least officially. There’s no evidence of his exit from Brazil or entry into this country. How do you explain all this?”
Agent Pendergast slowly crossed one leg over the other. “I can’t. Again, as I mentioned in my statement, I only became aware of my son’s existence—or the fact that I had a son—some eighteen months ago.”
“And you saw him then?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the Brazilian jungle.”
“And since then?”
“I have neither seen nor communicated with him.”
“Why not? Why haven’t you sought him out?”
“I told you: we are—were—estranged.”
“Why, exactly, were you estranged?”
“Our personalities were incompatible.”
“Can you say anything about his character?”
“I hardly knew him. He took delight in malicious games; he was an expert at taunting and mortification.”
Angler took a deep breath. These non-answers were getting under his skin. “And his mother?”
“In my statement you will see that she died shortly after his birth, in Africa.”
“Right. The hunting accident.” There was something odd about that as well, but Angler could only deal with one absurdity at a time. “Might your son have been in some kind of trouble?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I have no idea. He was eminently capable of managing even the worst trouble.”
“How can you know he was in trouble without knowing what sort?”
“Because he had strong criminal tendencies.”
They were just going around and around. Angler had the strong feeling Pendergast was not only uninterested in helping the NYPD catch his son’s killer, but was probably withholding information, as well. Why would he do that? There was no guarantee the body was even that of his son. True, there was a remarkable resemblance. But the only identification was Pendergast’s own. It would be interesting to see if the victim’s DNA returned any hits in the database. And it would be simple to compare his DNA with Pendergast’s—which, since he was an FBI agent, was already on file.
“Agent Pendergast,” he said coldly. “I must ask you again: Do you have any idea, any suspi
cion, any clue, as to who killed your son? Any information about the circumstances that might have led to his death? Any hint of why his body would be deposited on your doorstep?”
“There is nothing in my statement that I am able to expand upon.”
Angler pushed the report away. This was only the first round. In no way was he finished with this man. “I don’t know what’s stranger here—the specifics of this killing, your non-reaction to it, or the non-background of your son.”
Pendergast’s expression remained absolutely blank. “O brave new world,” he said, “that has such people in’t.”
“ ’Tis new to thee,” Angler shot back.
At this, Pendergast showed the first sign of interest of the entire interview. His eyes widened ever so slightly, and he looked at the detective with something like curiosity.
Angler leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. “I think we’re done for the present, Agent Pendergast. So let me close by saying simply this: You may not want this case solved. But it will be solved, and I’m the man who’s going to do it. I will take it as far as it leads, if necessary to the doorstep of a certain uncooperative FBI agent. Is that understood?”
“I would expect no less.” Pendergast rose, stood, and—nodding to Slade as he opened the door—exited the office without saying another word.
Back at the Riverside Drive mansion, Pendergast strode purposefully through the reception hall and into the library. Moving toward one of the tall bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, he pulled aside a wooden panel, exposing a laptop computer. Typing quickly, using passwords when necessary, he first accessed the NYPD file servers, then the database of open homicide cases. Jotting down certain reference numbers, he moved next to the force’s DNA database, where he quickly located the forensic test results for DNA samples collected from the supposed Hotel Killer, who had traumatized the city with brutal murders in upscale Manhattan hotels a year and a half earlier.
Even though he was logged in as an authorized user, the data was locked and would not allow for alteration or deletion.
Pendergast stared at the screen for a moment. Then, plucking his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed a long-distance number in River Pointe, Ohio. It was answered on the first ring.
“Well,” came the soft, breathless voice. “If it isn’t my favorite Secret Agent Man.”
“Hello, Mime,” Pendergast replied.
“How can I be of assistance today?”
“I need some records removed from an NYPD database. Quietly, and without a trace.”
“Always happy to do what I can to subvert our boys in blue. Tell me: does this have anything to do with—what was that name again—Operation Wildfire?”
Pendergast paused. “It does. But please, Mime: no further questions.”
“You can’t blame me for being curious. But never mind. Do you have the necessary reference numbers?”
“Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
Slowly and distinctly, eyes on the screen, fingers on the laptop’s trackpad, Pendergast began reciting the numbers.
It was six thirty that evening when Pendergast’s cell phone rang. The screen registered UNKNOWN NUMBER.
“Special Agent Pendergast?” The voice was anonymous, monotonal—and yet familiar.
“Yes.”
“I am your friend in need.”
“I’m listening.”
A dry chuckle. “We met once before. I came to your house. We drove beneath the George Washington Bridge. I gave you a file.”
“Of course. Regarding Locke Bullard. You’re the gentleman from—” Pendergast stopped himself before mentioning the man’s place of employment.
“Yes. And you are wise to leave those pesky government acronyms out of unprotected cell phone conversations.”
“What can I do for you?” Pendergast asked.
“You should ask instead: What can I do for you?”
“What makes you think I need help?”
“Two words. Operation Wildfire.”
“I see. Where shall we meet?”
“Do you know the FBI firing range on West Twenty-Second Street?”
“Of course.”
“Half an hour. Firing bay sixteen.” The connection went dead.
Pendergast entered through the double doors of the long, low building at the corner of Twenty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue, showed his FBI shield to the woman at the security barrier, descended a short flight of stairs, showed his shield again to the range master, picked up several paper targets and a pair of ear protectors, and entered the range proper. He walked along the forward section, past agents, trainees, and firearms instructors, to firing bay 16. There were protective sound baffles between every two firing bays, and he noticed that both bay 16 and the one beside it, 17, were empty. The report of gunfire from the other bays was only partially muffled by the baffles, and—always sensitive to sound—Pendergast fitted the hearing protection over his ears.
As he was laying out four empty magazines and a box of ammunition on the little shelf before him, he sensed a presence enter the bay. A tall, thin, middle-aged man in a gray suit, with deep-set eyes and a face rather lined for his age, had entered it. Pendergast recognized him immediately. His hair was perhaps a little thinner than the only other time Pendergast had seen him—some four years before—but in every other way he looked unchanged, bland, still surrounded with an air of mild anonymity. He was the sort of person that, if you passed him on the street, you would be unable to furnish a description even moments later.
The man did not return Pendergast’s glance, instead pulling a Sig Sauer P229 from his jacket and placing it on the shelf of bay 17. He did not don hearing protection, and with a discreet motion—still not looking Pendergast’s way—he made a motion for the agent to remove his own.
“Interesting choice of venue,” Pendergast said, looking downrange. “Rather less private than a car under the approach to the George Washington Bridge.”
“The very lack of privacy makes it even more anonymous. Just two feds, practicing at a firing range. No phones to tap, no wires to record. And of course, with all this racket, no chance for eavesdropping.”
“The range master’s going to remember the appearance of a CIA operative at an FBI range—especially since you fellows usually don’t carry concealed weapons.”
“I have my share of alternative identities. He won’t remember anything specific.”
Pendergast opened the box of ammo and began loading the magazines.
“I like your custom 1911,” the man said, glancing at Pendergast’s weapon. “Les Baer Thunder Ranch Special? Nice-looking piece.”
“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why we’re here.”
“I’ve been keeping something of an eye on you since our first meeting,” the man said, still without making eye contact. “When I learned of your involvement in initiating Wildfire, I grew intrigued. A low-profile but intense monitoring operation, by certain members of both the FBI and CIA, for the location of a youth who may or may not be calling himself Alban, who may or may not be in hiding in Brazil or adjoining countries, who speaks Portuguese, English, and German fluently, and who above all things should be considered exceptionally capable and extremely dangerous.”
Instead of replying, Pendergast clipped a target—a marksman bull’s-eye with a red central X—to the rail and, pressing the OUT button on the baffle to his left, ran it out the full twenty-five yards. The man beside him clipped on an FBI qualification target—a gray bottle-like shape, without scaling or marking—and ran it out to the end of bay 17.
“And just today I get wind of an NYPD report in which you state that your son—also named Alban—was left on your doorstep, dead.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. Hence, this meeting.”
Pendergast picked up one of the magazines, charged his weapon. “Please don’t think me rude if I ask you to get to the point.”
“I can help you. You kept your word on the Locke Bullard case and saved me a lot of trouble. I believe in reciprocation. And like I said, I’ve kept track of you. You’re a rather interesting person. It’s entirely possible that you could be of assistance to me again, down the road. A partnership, if you will. I’d like to bank that.”
Pendergast didn’t respond.
“Surely you know you can trust me,” the man said over the muffled, yet omnipresent, sound of gunfire. “I’m the soul of discretion—as are you. Any information you give me stops with me. I may have resources you wouldn’t otherwise have access to.”
After a moment, Pendergast nodded once. “I’ll accept your offer. As for background, I have two sons, twins, whose existence I only learned of a year and a half ago. One of those sons—Alban—is, or was, a sociopathic killer of a most dangerous type. He’s the so-called Hotel Killer, a case that remains open and unsolved by the NYPD. I wish the case to remain so, and have taken steps to ensure that it shall. Shortly after I became aware of his existence, he disappeared into the jungles of Brazil and was neither seen nor heard from until he appeared on my doorstep last night. I always believed that he would surface one day… and that the results would be catastrophic. For that reason, I initiated Operation Wildfire.”
“But Wildfire never received any hits.”
“None.”
The nameless man charged his own weapon, racked a bullet into the chamber, took aim with both hands, and discharged the entire magazine into the qualification target. Every shot landed within the gray bottle. The sound was deafening within the baffled space.
“Until yesterday, who knew that Alban was your son?” the man asked as he ejected his magazine.
“Only a handful of people—most of them family or house help.”
“And yet someone not only located and captured Alban, but also managed to kill him, leave him on your doorstep, and then escape practically undetected.”
Blue Labyrinth Page 2
